


Charting the Stars

by esteoflorien



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 04:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12449391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteoflorien/pseuds/esteoflorien
Summary: Hippolyta stands at the shoreline long after Diana and Steve Trevor have floated past the visible horizon. But queens do not have the option of inertia, and Philippus must help her confront her grief and her guilt. A love story, because we all need more of those.





	Charting the Stars

Hippolyta stands at the shoreline long after Diana and Steve Trevor have floated past the visible horizon. Menalippe and the others had left wordlessly once Diana’s boat had reached the open water, leaving the pair of them alone with the waves for company. At Philippus’s direction, they’d taken Hippolyta’s horse with them.

If Hippolyta heard them leave, she gave no indication. She is illuminated with a corona of light, as if the moon shines from her hair. Philippus knows, intellectually, that she is consumed by grief, but her bearing is, if possible, even more regal than before.  

“You need not attend me,” Hippolyta says, unmoving. Her voice has lost its cultured edge; the exhaustion is coming through. Her words are formal but her tone is wispy. 

In the darkness, Philippus struggles to discern the crest of the waves from the midnight sky. “Where is my place, if not by your side?”

Hippolyta remains silent, but her posture relaxes ever so slightly. She keeps her gaze trained on the horizon, scanning the sea for that which has already gone beyond her reach, even as Philippus closes the distance between them to stand beside her. After all their years together, there’s no need for words, nor even for touch: they have come to a place in their togetherness where shared silence binds them as fiercely as passion.

“Do you remember when she was younger, and we taught her the names of the stars?” Hippolyta’s voice is thick with emotion.

“She was an eager pupil,” Philippus supplies. “In a fortnight she was as good a skywatcher as I am.” It is a carefully calculated bit of self-deprecation, an attempt at drawing Hippolyta back to her.  Hippolyta laughs, then - a bitter laugh, but a concession nevertheless. She shifts her weight to stand a little closer to Philippus.

“I daresay that charting the stars is not among your many gifts,” Hippolyta says, after a moment. “But you studied them for her.”

( _Oh, those lessons_ , Philippus thinks, remembering well all the trips to the library, the scrolls she’d laid on the grass and matched to the sky, _all for a little girl who’s plotting her way to another world by following their path through the sky_.)

“She carries that knowledge with her tonight, Hippolyta,” Philippus says, after a moment. “And she was a far better student than I.”

Hippolyta nods in reply. “We taught her well.”

“So we did.”

At that, Hippolyta slips her hand into Philippus’s, and turns to look at her properly. Her face is tracked with tears and lined with worry. If before she was so otherworldly as to be ethereal, now she’s _real_. Philippus presses a kiss to her temple.

“Let’s go inside, Hippolyta,” she says, and to her surprise, Hippolyta nods, and leans her head on her shoulder, and allows herself to be led quietly through the streets, winding their way up to the palace, past the sentries guarding the doors and through the courtyard to their rooms.

The door closes heavily behind them; their rooms are bathed in moonlight. Hippolyta stands frozen by the bed as Philippus lights the lamps and begins her evening ablutions. When she has finished, once she’s refreshed herself with water from the springs and set her skin glowing in the lamplight with scented oil, she is surprised to see that Hippolyta is still stood by the foot of the bed, still dressed in her heavy mantle and battle leathers.

“Why did I say that?” she asks, and Philippus can’t tell if it’s meant to be rhetorical.

“Because it was true,” she replies, once it becomes obvious that Hippolyta is waiting.

“And yet I withheld other truths from her,” Hippolyta says harshly. “Why not that one?”

On balance, Philippus would _not_ have said that to Diana, would not have sent her off to battle with _you are my greatest sorrow_ , but then Hippolyta’s strength has ever been her unwavering commitment to what is true: her ability to recognize her error, and take responsibility for it, and face the consequences. That, after all, is why they are here, in a paradisiacal prison where they guard the gates to Hades, because Hippolyta acknowledged her failing and Athena took pity on them. If nothing else, when pressed Hippolyta speaks truth, even if it is impolitic, undiplomatic. It is why they are here together, why they have time in their days to fight and make music, to write poetry and to dance, and why, against all odds, she is _here_ , in the queen’s bedchamber, her equal in all but title.

“Because there are some truths that may reveal themselves in time, and others which must be said.” Philippus has spent too long in her thoughts; Hippolyta has answered her own question.

(It was this endearing, almost amusing trait that first caught Philippus’s eye all those years ago: Hippolyta, in those years, in their youth, was a whirlwind, a restless maiden not yet matured into the gravitas of her diadem. She would spar with words as willingly as she would with her sword, and it had often been a challenge to keep up with her. She would finish an argument with a flourish, a question, a challenge - and with a glimmer of satisfaction in her eye. And when her sparring partner, whoever it was, tarried too long, she would strike, and each time she saw her win, whether in the Senate or on the field, Philippus found her utterly captivating. She finds her captivating still, perhaps even more so, now that she is older, wiser, weighted with responsibility but still filled with fire.)

“That is so, my love,” she replies. Endearments pepper their usual conversations; unlike many of the others, for whom these are words that live within the walls of their homes. It is only in the Senate and on the field that Hippolyta refrains from using them, out of respect for her rank and responsibilities, so that there is no question among the Amazons that Philippus has earned her place at Hippolyta’s side. That, too, is _truth_.

(And yet, when Hippolyta comes to observe training, when she and Menalippe put on a show for their queen and their  soldiers, when Hippolyta escorts her to the baths, she will say all manner of lovely things when she thinks their sisters are out of earshot, which they are, most of the time, except when they are not. _She is not entirely how I thought her to be_ , the armsmistress had said once, with thoughtful amusement,  seeing her with new eyes after having quite inadvertently overheard Hippolyta’s praise for her performance and concern for injury.)  

“I am _tired_ , Philippus,” Hippolyta says, after a long moment.

Philippus crosses the room and cups Hippolyta’s face between her hands. “Then let us rest, Hippolyta,” she replies, and presses a kiss to her forehead. Hippolyta’s eyes close as if receiving benediction or absolution, though which one in particular Philippus can’t say. She knows her well enough to know when it is that Hippolyta feels overwhelmed with responsibility and when she is consumed by uncertainty, when to let her alone, when to offer guidance, and when to give comfort, but this is guilt and grief and worry, and it is something new.

She settles for stepping behind her and gently lifting the heavy mantle from her shoulders. Hippolyta lifts her head and brushes a kiss against her arm. “Thank you,” she whispers as Philippus steps away to set the mantle onto its form. She returns to find that Hippolyta has unbuckled her sandals, just in time to offer her hand to help her step out of them.

Hippolyta accepts her hand gratefully and allows herself to be pulled into an embrace; it is a relief because if nothing else, she had been so very distant all evening.

“You are tired, my dearest,” Philippus whispers into her hair. “It’s time to rest.” It’s an easy thing to manipulate the clasps on her armor and set each piece aside; easier still to take the diadem from her hair and unplait  her braids, all without allowing Hippolyta to leave the protective circle of her embrace; easy to run the cleansing cloth over her form, and _easy_ to gently anoint her with oil. There is relief in the familiarity of this ritual, relief which soothes the heartache Philippus shares equally with Hippolyta, even if she has not named it. ( _Because you need not name it for me to know it is so_ , Hippolyta would say, were the question put to her.)

“You love me,” Hippolyta says, her voice muffled against Philippus’s shoulder.

“I love you without exception,” Philippus replies, because that is what Hippolyta needs to hear. Hippolyta’s breath comes quickly, then, and it’s but a moment before the telltale trickle of tears dampens her shoulder.

“What must they think of me,” she says, once she has composed herself and tucked her head against Philippus’s neck, resting more deliberately, less desperately, curling her arms around Philippus’s waist. “What would they think of this?”

“They would think it good that their queen has fears and uncertainties and grief as they do,” she murmurs into Hippolyta’s hair. “And they would think it good that we have each other.”

Hippolyta laughs, almost in spite of herself. “I suppose they would.” She, after all, is no more immune to the gossip mill than anyone else, and she has heard the whispers of amusement and indulgence just as much as the whispers of favoritism and lovesickness.

“Although to be perfectly honest, I’ve no interest in seeking their permission for the love of their queen.”

“You have no need of it,” Hippolyta murmurs. “My love is freely given.”

“So it has been,” Philippus says. “And my love is yours.”

Hippolyta holds her tighter, then. “Antiope is gone,” she says slowly. “My daughter is beyond my reach.” There is a growing terror in her voice, as if she’s just logically put these two facts together. “I could not bear to lose you,” she says, her voice trailing into a whisper. “Please, please, please, I could not _bear_ it.”

Philippus pushes her back to look at her, and Hippolyta meets her gaze with blushing, wide-eyed panic. “ _Please_ , Philippus.”

“You would bear it, Hippolyta, because you are our queen, and our people need you, and because the very _last_ thing I would want you to do is follow me to Hades for some sort of avenging last stand. Do you hear me? _You will not._ ”

Hippolyta’s lip trembles, and immediately Philippus sees young Diana in her expression. When the child was little she struggled to find the resemblance between mother and daughter, but in this moment, they might be one and the same. It is at once a blessing, for the child they have lost to adulthood, and a curse, for the daughter they have lost to men.

“You will bear it because I love you, and because it is in living and leading our people that you would best honor me. If it were thus, Hippolyta, you would bear it.” Hippolyta’s eyes close in reluctant acquiescence, and Philippus seizes the moment to kiss her, with all the earnest desperation and love she feels. “But I will do everything in my power to be certain that it does not come to pass.”

Hippolyta kisses her by way of reply, pulling her closer and closer until there’s barely a hair’s breadth between them. “I love you,” she says, and her voice is full of fierce power and her touch is so desperate, all they can do is fall into bed for the reassurance that they are both still _here_ , when so many others have been lost.

_Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful_ , Hippolyta whispers against her skin, as if she is afraid Philippus will disappear. She has never known how to reply in these moments, except to press her closer, hold her tighter, and match her passion.

Afterwards, they rest closely together, wrapped in the light summer blanket as their skin begins to cool.

“I will go to Athena,” Hippolyta says, after some moments of silence. Philippus has been drifting pleasantly, enjoying the languid, gentle afterglow, running her fingers through Hippolyta’s hair and holding her firmly in place against her breast. But mention of Hippolyta’s patron gets her attention quite readily.

“I will seek her guidance,” she continues. “We must ensure the future safety of Themyscira.”

“But the gods - “

“Athena is not dead,” Hippolyta says propping herself up to look at her with such certainty that Philippus can’t even entertain the thought of contradicting her. “I would _know_ , Philippus,” she says, as if she’s read her mind. “I would know if my goddess had left this world and I know she has not. So I must find her.”

“We will find her,” Philippus says, guiding her head back down to her breast. “In the morning, once you have had time to rest.” Hippolyta is restless against her, and Philippus knows well why: she is already thinking ahead, making plans, analyzing her options, entirely prepared to plan the night away.

“Sleep, my queen,” she says, stroking firmly down her back, and savors Hippolyta’s laugh.

“To think that an Amazon presumes to command her queen,” Hippolyta says, as imperiously as she can manage, but the effect is rather lessened given the fact that she is lounging comfortably against said Amazon, arching her back like a cat. Philippus laughs, and holds her closer, and they lie comfortably together, at home and at peace in their intimacy, drifting off together to the sounds of the waves on the shore.

Unsurprisingly, Hippolyta falls asleep first. Philippus keeps herself awake a little while longer, to guard her dreams, watching as Hippolyta’s expression slackens and the lines round her eyes soften, listening as her breath grows softer and more regular, until Hippolyta’s warmth and the blue-tinged glow of the moonlight carry her gently off to sleep.


End file.
